Tradition
by Baroness Emma
Summary: Nyota introduces her adun to a unique Terran tradition.


**A/N** - I warn you - this is unmitigated, T rated fluff. I am a shameless romantic, I admit it. . . there's no plot whatsoever here, but it's all meant in fun. And yeah, they're married, so everything that happens is quite. . . *ahem*. . . normal. Yes. . . normal is a good word. . . (^_^)

Enjoy!

* * *

"Because of our traditions, every man knows who he is. . . "

– Tevye, from _Fiddler on the Roof_

* * *

**Tradition**

Nyota had always loved olives. He had known this for years, ever since he had observed her at the Academy, explaining the difference between the Tuscan and Kalamata varieties to the off-world cadets. She was something of a connoisseur, and this he respected. It was a harmless interest, though quite interesting, and nutritious, if his understanding of Human biology was at all proficient.

During their courtship, he had enjoyed being introduced to things like muffaletta (it was quite acceptable when spread on Vulcan flatbread) and tapenade (which Nyota would often mix in their salad each evening). He also learned to appreciate dry cured Greek olives, and American Style green olives stuffed with bleu cheese. His preferred type were the tree-ripened, brine-cured, un-pitted variety, but he never imposed his preference upon her chosen hobby.

It was not until their long posting upon the _Enterprise_ that he truly came to acknowledge the depth of her interest, however, since being aboard ship amplified the difference inherent between _real_ foods and _necessary_ nutrition. In fact, he found he had never even appreciated a genuine bowl of_ plomeek_ soup until two years into the five year assignment, when the stores of fresh provisions had unexpectedly given out, and he had attempted to program the replicators to his satisfaction. It had been unexpectedly difficult and his subsequent battle with the main computer had been singularly irritating.

Thus, he was un-characteristically pleased when Nyota informed him that she had obtained several cans of black olives (one of her "simple favorites", as she called them) and had arranged an after dinner snack for them that evening.

He entered their quarters at 1945, (having had first to deal with a meeting with Jim, and an update from McCoy, concerning their last mission stop, and the epidemic they had incidentally prevented) and found that, once again, though there were no significant differences in the content or layout of their quarters, whenever he entered the space he shared with his _adun'a_, he experienced a distinct sensation of peace.

She emerged from the sleeping area to the living area, carrying a tray with a variety of cheeses, crackers, two glasses of wine, and, center stage, as it were, was large bowl of velvety black olives.

Without a word, she proceeded to serve out the snacks she had provided, and, still in silence, she led him to sit at their small dining table.

As he dutifully sipped and nibbled, she would sigh and grin – at times showing her enjoyment so plainly he could not refrain from commenting.

"Even after observing you intimately for over a year, k'diwa," he said blandly, "I find it incomprehensible that you deem such an experience as fresh food to be worthy of such facial expressions."

He observed the characteristic glint that passed through her features – she knew what he meant, and every subtext he was hinting at.

She smiled a sleek half smile and asked, "Well, husband, instead of perturbing you with my illogical human response to a treat, would you like me to demonstrate the _traditional_ method of eating black olives?"

A slight lifting of eyebrows was all the answer she needed.

In response, she delicately fitted an olive to each of her fingertips and proceeded to eat them. . . slowly. . . and one by one. . . not breaking eye contact with him the whole time.

He was not entirely certain what his response to this display was _supposed_ to be, but he was in no doubt as to what his response _was_.

_Human hands are __**not**__ the same as Vulcan hands. . . I know this. . . and yet. . . _

When she had done, she reached over and took him by the wrist, and eying his own hands she again broke the silence – "It is your turn _adun_. . ."

He was not at all discomfited by the ensuing experience – after all, everything about it was _traditional_. . . . . . . . . .


End file.
